


Nervosa

by FirozTaverbi



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FirozTaverbi/pseuds/FirozTaverbi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovery is a slow, painful process. Loving someone who hurt you is unbearable. Being alone is worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

The week that he returned home from the hospital, Vexen's mother took him to church. He sat in sullen silence through the vicar's sermon, his mind in secular places as his eyes wandered idly across the faces of the blessed people glowing in the stained glass windows. In their frozen expressions was a childish joy and wonder, their reverence directed to a gaunt, pale figure with a kindliness in his eyes and holes in his hands.

After the service, Vexen hung around his mother in the foyer for a little while as she made small talk with her fellow parishioners, but soon the gulp and crunch of dozens of biscuits and cups of tea overwhelmed his senses and drove him back into the emptying sanctuary. The vicar had receded to the vestry and the organist gave him a nod and a tight smile as she left with her songbook and scores.

Vexen sat on the front pew and gazed at the simple wooden cross hung up at the front of the church. Then he studied the flowers, thinking of Marluxia. He wasn't sure if it was right to let his mind fill with images of that man, beautiful and contemptuous and with the power to unravel him to the depths of his rotten core.

He closed his eyes and thought of little else. When he opened them again the hustle and bustle of the congregation outside seemed to have grown quieter, the sanctuary cool and peaceful and full of souls.

_Hah_ , thought Vexen, standing. _I am just a bundle of nerves and cells and blood and chemicals and atoms_.

_Oh, my son_ , said God. _But you are so, so much more._

 

...

 

In the afternoon, Vexen helped his father out in the garden. The sky was clear and the air still. Vexen felt faint. He hadn't eaten all day, even when his mother looked at him with sad, disappointed eyes, and the cup of coffee she'd made him was in his bedroom still, almost in its entirety. He pressed on anyway, to keep up appearances, pulling out little green shoots that reminded him of Marluxia. Marluxia was ruthless with weeds, so naturally Vexen rather liked them. Daisies in the lawn made him smile. He liked a good hedge infected with brambles, their fat summer fruits dangling gorgeously from bitter thorned branches. He encouraged a tulip to grow where it wasn't supposed to, to give something wild back to Marluxia's ugly synthetic garden.

The hot sun beat down on the back of his neck and made his head swim.

Vexen's father thought that the eating problems had come from spending too much time with homosexuals. Vexen's father didn't understand that Vexen had always liked boys though, even when he had been very little, gazing with awe and longing at the elder schoolboys with long limbs and glistening sweaty skin as they chased after that elusive winning goal. They didn't talk about those kinds of things. They didn't talk about anything, at least not anything of consequence. When Vexen started coming home with men his father had just grown very quiet and very awkward. His mother had disapproved, but not all that much, because she thought that Vexen was going to have to grow out of it and settle down with a nice wife and give her nice grandchildren eventually.

Eventually when the heat became too overbearing, Vexen told his father that he was tired and went inside. He poured himself a glass of water. Water didn't have any calories in it, so it was allowed. It helped a little with the headache, but Vexen's body still felt heavy.

He hated that tiredness made him feel heavy. It meant that there was no way to win.

Vexen's mother had made a fruit salad. It sat in a decorative bowl on the counter, colourful and alive.

_Go on_ , said God, _have some_.

God said, _the strawberries are nice. I would know. I made them_.

God said, _I made them for you_.

Vexen took out the tiniest bowl he could find and plopped half a strawberry into it.

Then he found a fork and ate the strawberry in two bites, meticulously, painfully. His mouth filled up with fresh summery flavours, with the tang of lemon juice underlining the sweetness of the fruit. The soft, juicy crunch of the flesh as he chewed, the tiny hard seeds, the pulp of the strawberry almost melting on his tongue. Even after he had swallowed, the flavours, the scent, lingered on his lips.

He washed up the bowl and the fork and put them back in the cupboard so nobody would know what he had done.

 

...

 

Vexen was too weak to go back to work, but his mother drove him halfway out of town to group therapy each week. The ring of brightly coloured plastic chairs in the therapy room made Vexen think of Marluxia, too big and self-important for their simple, minimalistic design.

Vexen fitted tidily into his plastic chair. So did the other pitiable figures sat around him, most of them skeletal, most of them female.

When it was his turn to speak, Vexen said, "If God told you to eat, would you?"

There was a long silence.

"If I could talk to God I would ask him a hell of a lot of questions," said one woman.

"I think I was going crazy," said another, bitterly.

One young girl, still a child really, looked down and said, "Yes."

 

...

 

Vexen missed his laboratory. He read all the journals when they came to his door, at least bits of them, and he dabbled in online forums and with long telephone calls to his colleagues, but what he really longed for was the chemical tang of laboratory air, the smooth pleasure of perfectly clean glassware, the knowledge, the searching, the science. In a way it kept him going, but it also dragged him down.

He ate a little every day. Forced himself to. Told himself over and over that eating was a means to an end. Meant nothing. Just a process. Eat, wash, shit, sleep. Marluxia would have been proud of him. Marluxia didn't have problems with eating, as evidenced by his generous weight. His issue was keeping it down.

Vexen wondered idly when Marluxia had last made himself sick. He was penning a letter to a researcher in a similar field who for all his intelligence had no idea what an email was, and someone in the house had just flushed the toilet. The handle was on the blink, so the flush was jittery, each sharp yank yielding nothing more than a noisy dribble until finally the cistern gave in and flushed itself clean.

Marluxia was very good at vomiting discretely. He always hid it behind the flush. Vexen had tried once years ago, when he was very ill, but whether because his stomach was empty or for some other reason, his gagging was too loud and his timing off, and he woke up the whole house anyway.

Vexen put down his pen and wondered where Marluxia was. How sick he was. He preferred bulimic Marluxia, hateful as it was to say. Bulimic Marluxia was muscular and perfect and sexy. He fitted into all those fashionable clothes. People turned their heads in the street to look at him. But best of all, he was horribly, horribly _broken_ , behind those pretty eyes and pretty smile something foul and decaying and Vexen liked that. He liked knowing that Marluxia was as disgusting inside as he was. Recovering Marluxia was just... fat.

The letter wasn't getting anywhere. Vexen set it aside.

God knew it was more important to be beautiful on the inside. Marluxia had realised that and Vexen hated him for it.

Vexen wasn't beautiful anywhere.

He went downstairs and forced a spoonful of leftover rice into his mouth. He felt sick and ashamed. He spat the rice out. It wasn't good enough for him. Or maybe it was too good. He still didn't really know.

 

...

 

Vexen's mother took him out for walks around the local park. He walked silently, preferring not to speak, which she didn't mind. He also had to stop very often to catch his breath, to rest his tired body, which she minded more.

"You wouldn't be so tired if you ate more," she said. Vexen already knew that. They stopped for lunch at the crest of a small hill. He reluctantly took a bite out of his cucumber sandwich. His mother looked like she wanted to congratulate him. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to, but either way she didn't.

The elephant that was his anorexia weighed down on them, suffocating and putrefying. Marluxia was a hateful, selfish idiot but at least he was open about his illness. About Vexen's. There was an understanding, sometimes silent, sometimes not; they had both seen the same hell and in some small way that meant something.

Vexen knew he was romanticising their relationship. By the time they parted ways Marluxia fitted into his fashionable clothes again and Vexen was so near death he spent a month in hospital. They drove each other into the ground trying to prove what, exactly? That each was better than the other?

Vexen ate the rest of his cucumber sandwich, except the crusts.

 

...

 

Vexen stepped off the scales. The doctor smiled and said, "You're making real progress."

Vexen hummed in the back of his throat. Progress was a mixed blessing. Progress was winning against the disorder, but it was also losing against the selfish needs of his body and the vows he had made to quash them.

The doctor took Vexen's blood pressure and said encouraging words and signed off a printed document to say that he was fit to return to work.

He was battling on.

 

...

 

Things got easier after Vexen started working again: being busy every day gave him an excuse for eating, so he didn't feel as if he was pointlessly converting calories into fat. At least, quite so much. His colleagues treated him as though he would fall apart at any second. That his leave of absence had been due to anorexia had got around, which was irritating. Vexen didn't want people to know he was weak like that.

The research filled up his mind, and entire afternoons would go by where he wouldn't think about what he had eaten, what he hadn't eaten, what he was or wasn't going to eat later. He also thought of Marluxia less. He still wasn't coming to therapy, although whether that meant he was healthier or even more broken Vexen had no way of knowing. The last time they'd seen each other, a few weeks before the hospital stay, Marluxia was so bad he didn't even look gorgeous any more, just exhausted.

He went to church with his mother again. The flowers that week were the shade of Marluxia's hair, so he sat there thinking about that delicious body and smouldering eyes like he was in the shower with his eyes squeezed shut and his hand around his cock and not in a house of God. Then his thoughts turned to the real Marluxia, the one who wasn't sexy, and he just felt... sad.

Vexen didn't believe in God. Not the kind of God the vicar was droning on about, anyway. But he closed his eyes and thought up a small prayer, that wherever he was, Marluxia was okay. He didn't have to be over the bulimia. Just safe. Not always hiding behind the pretence of perfection.

Then Vexen considered, for the first time, that Marluxia might have another boyfriend by now. The very idea was so sour that his throat tightened and his chest flushed horribly and the quiet congregation suddenly seemed suffocating.

After the service Vexen snuck back into the sanctuary again, wanting to be alone with God.

"Can you love someone even if they broke you?" He said, out loud, into the peaceful silence.

He was mostly asking because he didn't know if he still loved Marluxia. But part of him was hoping that Marluxia still loved him back.

 

...

 

"I don't think I deserve to live," Vexen admitted. "The more I've been eating the more... ashamed I feel. Not for not being in control, but for..." He kneaded his temples. "For keeping myself alive. All this time I've been trying to kill myself."

"Thank you for sharing that with us, Vexen. I'm really glad you felt comfortable enough to tell us how you feel." The therapist said things like this all the time. The worst thing was, she sounded genuine every single time. "Does anyone have something to say to Vexen?"

One of the elder women ventured a hand.

"I feel the same way. I always feel guilty for eating, as if I'd been throwing the food away. Because it feels like a waste to feed someone like me." She said this very calmly, but her voice began to wobble at the very end. She pursed her lips and averted her eyes.

One of the bulimics said, "I get that when I eat. And also when I puke. So it's twice as bad."

"I guess we all hate ourselves, when it comes down to it," said the other bulimic.

"But I still don't know why," said Vexen. "It's not like I had a traumatic childhood or anything." A lot of the women had been sexually abused, whether as adults or children. Most of the ones who hadn't had suffered from emotional or physical abuse instead. A couple had been influenced by constantly dieting mothers, or being bullied about their weight while they were young; or else they worked in industries where weight and appearance meant everything. But none of that applied to Vexen. The only real matter of contention between him and his parents was his sexuality. He mentioned this.

"It might not seem like much, but small things like this can affect us all a lot. If you didn't feel like your parents accepted such an important part of your identity, that could lead to internalised shame, and ultimately self hatred."

Vexen shrugged. He was done with introspection for the day.

After the session had finished and everyone was picking up their jackets, the therapist came up to Vexen and congratulated him for "making real progress". Vexen didn't know how to feel about that. The therapist told him that things might be harder as Vexen unpacked the emotions and feelings behind his anorexia, but that it would lead him to health and happiness in the end. She shook his hand.

As she was returning to the plastic chairs, Vexen said, "Have you heard from Marluxia lately?"

Their relationship hadn't exactly been a secret in the therapy circle. They snapped and bit at each other from the moment they met, and when the petty complaints became things like "I don't want to hear you throwing up at two in the morning when I'm trying to sleep" and "if you weren't so Goddamn judgemental about my body then maybe I wouldn't have to" it would have taken a real moron not to realise that they were fucking. And they had both got worse and worse, so wrapped up in each other and themselves that not even the therapist could stop them on their path to self destruction.

The therapist shook her head. Vexen thanked her and left, wishing he didn't feel so disappointed.

 

...

 

Finally he heard from a friend of a friend that Marluxia had just received a promotion at work, and that he was "looking good".

Vexen, who now weighed more than he had in two years, felt guilty. It wasn't his fault that Marluxia had bulimia. But he couldn't shake the notion that it was his fault he had it again. He didn't eat for a while, and his health suffered. His mother was concerned, of course, but she wouldn't understand. She only knew about Marluxia in passing, and that was more than enough for Vexen.

He helped her around the house during the weekends. Mostly she talked about people at work, or people at church, or friends in the neighbourhood watch group. So-and-so was having a baby. This person or other went on holiday to Cambodia and had a lovely time. Someone else's daughter had taken up the violin. The usual mundane life things. But Vexen was happy to listen. He felt like he was part of this big boring messy network of inconsequential lives.

_You are all my children_ , said God.

Vexen wondered if his mother talked about him at church. Whether she told the truth about his illness. Whether she was ashamed of him, for being weak, for being gay, for needing expensive therapy. Vexen had no brothers or sisters. He wished he wasn't so afraid that his parents were disappointed by their only son.

 

...

 

He went back home after five months. His mother still took him to therapy, but he was considered robust enough to get the train to work himself. The bustle and clutter of the daily commute was claustrophobic at first, but Vexen quickly adjusted. Every weekend his mother took him grocery shopping, where he bought simple ingredients for simple meals, and before they left she always checked his fridge to make sure there wasn't too much left over. He didn't finish all his meals, but he was managing.

Then one week he was doubling back to pick up a jar of tomato sauce, and at the end of the aisle looking at the pasta was Marluxia, shrouded by his long leather coat. Vexen's heart leapt to his throat; he ducked quickly back around the corner of the aisle before Marluxia noticed him, flushing pink.

His mind was perfectly divided between wanting to approach the man, and forgetting that he had seen him at all. They hadn't spoken for months, and if Marluxia was going to cast him off when he had spent all that time agonising over their traumatic excuse for a relationship, he wasn't sure he wanted it to be in a supermarket.

He quickly checked his quarry before hiding out of sight again. Marluxia was still there, comparing two boxes of pasta. This was not the time and place for a reunion. But would Vexen have another chance?

He wondered what he'd say. _Sorry_ , maybe. But Marluxia _had_ put him in hospital. They were both equally at fault for what they did to each other, and themselves. Eventually he decided he'd just start with _hello_ and see where that took him, but when he turned back into the aisle Marluxia was gone. He must have decided which pasta he wanted and moved on. Forgetting about his tomato sauce, Vexen turned into the next aisle, expecting Marluxia to be absorbed in some other menial product choice, but he was just looking around, and as simply as that their eyes caught and held. Marluxia froze. Vexen wasn't moving either, hardly even to breathe. Marluxia didn't look pleased to see him, but he didn't look angry either. His coat was open, a tight-fitting shirt revealing his broad chest underneath.

Finally Vexen took a few tentative steps forward. He felt like he was watching a wild animal, afraid that if he made any sudden movements it would take flight. He found himself raising his hand in an awkward wave. Marluxia just looked at him. The moments before they were finally close enough to talk were agonising.

Marluxia wasn't saying anything. His whole body was tense. He turned to the tins on the shelves.

So Vexen said awkwardly, "Hello."

"You look well," said Marluxia. His voice was as beautiful as ever, rich and deep and seductive, even when he was making bland statements that wouldn't have meant anything coming from somone else.

"You look sick," Vexen admitted. Marluxia's posture slumped, just a little.

"Worse than ever."

"You should come back to therapy," said Vexen. But Marluxia shook his head, refusing to turn to face him.

"It wasn't helping." To Vexen, it sounded a lot more like, _you_ weren't helping. He told himself he deserved the feelings of guilt that Marluxia's accusing tone elicited. When they met, Marluxia had been recovering. He was overweight, but rediscovering happiness: Vexen, too proud to have a lover less broken than him, pulled him back down into sickness. But then again, Marluxia hadn't exactly had the cleanest hands in the affair.

The seconds ticked on, terse and pregnant with unspoken words.

"I heard you got a promotion," Vexen said finally. His heart was thudding in his ears. He couldn't bear this stilted conversation, but he didn't want it to end, afraid that this was his very last chance to be with Marluxia, and if he left now he would disappear forever. He wanted to reach out, grab Marluxia's arm, hold him, take him, _own_ him.

"I've been working very hard."

"Congratulations."

Marluxia was staring unseeingly at the tins.

"I'm back at work," Vexen offered. He could feel the panic rising inside him. His mother would probably be looking for him by now. He spoke faster, breathlessly, betraying his fear, "I'm much better. Physically and mentally. I even cook for myself now-"

"Please leave."

"-I can help you get better too. I won't make the mistakes I made before-"

"Vexen, _please_!" Marluxia pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am not strong enough for this right now." He started walking away. Vexen ached to follow, but his feet were frozen to the floor.

"I'm sorry," he called out desperately. Marluxia kept walking. Then he was gone.

A few moments later Vexen's mother found him, standing in the same spot. She asked about the tomato sauce, but Vexen had changed his mind. He didn't want it anyway. In fact, he didn't want any of the groceries he bought that day. He knew it was an overreaction which only proved Marluxia right: that Vexen was bad, that he was weak, that he didn't _help_ , but the impulses were too strong to resist. He threw away all the food he had and survived on coffee until the therapist noticed the lethargy of his movements and the pallor of his skin, and he, Vexen, broke down there in his stupid blue plastic chair.

He said, "I can't eat when I know it's my fault he's still sick."

He said, "I fucking wrecked him."

He said, "It was all my fault."

The therapist didn't agree with him, but she didn't disagree with him either.


	2. Part Two

Vexen didn't tell his mother about seeing Marluxia. He didn't think she'd understand. He didn't want her to.

He skipped out on going to church, feeling too sinful to visit a holy place. At therapy he oscillated between anger and remorse. The weight of his guilt dragged him into self-loathing. His mother worried that he was getting depressed, but he had been depressed before and now he longed for its apathy.

He started missing days at work, not for any good reason. He just lay in bed with his hand down his pants, staring at the ceiling, thinking of Marluxia. His mother found him there one weekend when she came to help him with his groceries.

"I can't get up," said Vexen distractedly, without looking at her. She said something he only half heard. "I feel too heavy."

She sat on the bed, as if he was twelve with a sore throat again.

"You haven't eaten much of last week's food."

"I feel too heavy."

"Something's happened, hasn't it? You haven't been well for weeks. Please tell me what's wrong."

Vexen tasted the idea of words in his mouth. He felt bloated by his emotions; they pressed against him like hunger, like nausea.

Finally he said, amazed at how level his voice was, "I saw Marluxia again. He's very sick."

"Your partner?"

"That's right." Vexen closed his eyes, trying to distract himself with the sounds of moving doors and floorboards in the flats above and below him. "He's bulimic. We met at therapy. But he hasn't come since I went to hospital and he's sick. He's so sick. Christ, and it's my fault."

 

...

 

In the months that followed, Vexen succumbed to an emotionless limbo. He worked mechanically through the motions of his daily life, turning the gears, watching the patterns play out. He ate sometimes. It was easier during the days where he felt the least; he could allow himself to be carried by the routine, robotic, hardly human at all.

His nights were filled with relentless thoughts of Marluxia.

His mother took him to church. He sat through the sermon, distracted, thinking of molecules and risk assessments, gazing unseeingly at the light splintering through the stained glass windows. The crowd of worshippers, as thin as sheets of paper, stood in layers as they gazed lovingly at their saviour's lacerated skin and gentle, melancholy face. The son of God was tired and thin, his ribs showing and his head tipped forward in submission, but Vexen imagined an inextinguishable warmth in his eyes.

He thought of the deep, glossy blue eyes of his former lover, and how he could have drowned in them. Marluxia's eyes were neither kind nor warm. When he was angry his eyes flashed dangerously, the rage barely veiled by his dark lashes. If his gaze wasn't impassive, it was judgemental. And yet...

The pastor's words were just a rhythmic mumble in the back of Vexen's consciousness. He thought about the sadness hiding in Marluxia's eyes. The desperation to even for a moment feel loved. He fancied that such secrets were invisible to all but him, someone who had known that longing, who even now hid behind a cold aloofness to protect himself.

_From what?_ asked God.

The congregation stood for a hymn. Vexen, who couldn't sing and didn't want to try, remained seated, letting the chorus wash over him. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be drawn through the melody. He became quite suddenly aware of his own existence, of the dimensions of his body and the feeling of his socks inside his shoes, the weight of his hair on his shoulders, the immediacy and intangibility of the hymn, so overwhelmingly present and yet so beautifully fleeting.

Just like the hymn, the feeling passed, but the memory of it remained.

 

...

 

Vexen was aware that he hadn't said a word during the entire therapy session. He was aware that other people were talking, saying inconsequential things that only amounted to a vague thrum in his ears.

He was very, _very_ aware of Marluxia.

The other man was sitting across the circle of chairs, focused intently on the counsellor as if there was something he was trying hard not to see. He had recently cut his hair: it curled softly around his ears and tickled the back of his neck, revealing the bulk of muscle at his shoulders, his elegant jawline, the feminine softness of his cheeks. He sat with poise and grace, but there was a stiffness to him, his posture too calculated, his muscles too tense.

Vexen stared and stared, feeling both trapped in the moment and terrified that it would end. Thoughts rushed through him, but at the same time his mind felt silent and empty. Marluxia's presence engulfed him.

The therapist said something to Marluxia. He dragged a hand through his hair, agitated, and said, "It's been impacting my work." And then: "I had pancreatitis." He shifted uncomfortably, his focus flicking between the therapist and the floor. "They referred me back here."

Vexen wished that he would glance, however briefly, in his direction. That their eyes would meet and communicate somehow all the words he wanted to say.

"I'm glad you felt able to come," said the therapist, understandingly. One of the other bulimics said something or other about kidney stones. Vexen ceased to care. The session moved on. Marluxia was fiddling with the ring on his finger, his eyes cast down and shielded by his fringe. The skin on the back of his hands looked dry.

"Vexen?"

"Hm?" Vexen realised a few suspicious moments too late that the therapist had been talking to him.

"I was asking if you had anything to share with the group this week."

"Oh, I'm doing okay," Vexen said blandly. "Having the routine helps a lot. I'm trying to work on not skipping meals so much."

"That's good," said the therapist. "It's good to see you making progress."

Vexen was aware that he was looking at Marluxia again. He couldn't tear himself away. It was like an itch that kept pulling at his focus no matter how he tried to ignore it.

At the end of the session, just as he was trying to rush to the door to catch Marluxia, the counsellor intercepted him and asked him some questions that he didn't care about, didn't care about at all. By the time he had a chance to leave Marluxia had escaped. On a level Vexen understood that she meant well - but the reminder that he was dangerous to Marluxia still stung.

 

...

 

There were dark rings underneath Marluxia's pretty eyes. His skin looked fragile, almost translucent. His fingers were tangled in his hair, apparently without him even being aware of it. He looked as though he was putting on weight but - as he had explained half an hour ago - that was just his muscles beginning to atrophy. He'd stopped working out. He was so tired, he said. So tired.

He mumbled, his voice lacking its usual practised clarity, "We need to put this to rest. Just talk things through." His eyes were flickering only briefly to Vexen's face. "I need the closure."

Vexen was aware that he was quivering with anxious anticipation.

"I agree," he said neutrally, afraid to betray the roiling emotions inside him.

"Are you busy tomorrow? Can you come over? I'll make a salad. If you can manage it."

"I should be finished by five thirty."

Marluxia shuffled. It didn't suit him. His discomfort, awkward half-sentences stripped of their usual bravado, elicited a peculiar sense of pity in Vexen. He seemed so... pathetic.

"I'll see you at six then."

For a moment they were caught in a timeless, motionless bubble, looking at each other's shoes, Vexen almost suffocating with the perception of Marluxia, so close yet utterly untouchable. Then the bubble popped and Marluxia was hurrying away, having said something inconsequential which Vexen didn't quite catch.

Outside, the sun was peeking through a thin veil of clouds. The air was restless, but warm. Vexen's mother was waiting in the car, reading a book she had found about homosexuality.

"It says here," she said, "That children raised by lesbians do better at school." She said the word "lesbians" like it belonged in another language, and she wasn't sure quite how to pronounce the foreign syllables.

"It's probably one of those statistical quirks," said Vexen, non-committally. "Same-sex couples wouldn't have children unless they can afford adoption or artificial insemination, so that's probably why." This explanation seemed to satisfy her.

"Yes, I suppose it's very effective birth control."

"I don't think that's why some women are lesbians."

"Are you alright? You seem breathless."

Vexen happened to catch Marluxia's car disappearing around the corner into the main road.

"I'm fine," he said. "We just did some breathing exercises at the end of the session, that's all."

 

...

 

Vexen stared at the scallops on the ceiling, breathing heavily, picking out patterns in the texture of the paint.

Marluxia said, "I don't know why I thought that wasn't going to happen."

The bed shifted as he sat up, slowly, as if his body was a heavy weight pulling him down. He wiped the sweat away from his forehead, reaching for the glass of water on his bedside table.

Vexen's lips curled into a smile. He let his eyes come to rest on Marluxia's bare back, skin slick and glossy, studded with crescent moons from Vexen's nails.

He said idly, imagining adding some pretty streaks to Marluxia's back, "You obviously don't know yourself as well as I do." Even this exhausted and broken, Marluxia was so beautiful. Soft skin and pink lips, hands that were at once delicate and strong, a fine, tender balance between feminine and masculine. And so _sad_.

Marluxia glanced at him and their eyes happened to catch; Vexen was pulled into a place where nothing existed but the sorrow of those captivating eyes. There was so much to say, and yet Vexen couldn't bear to break the silence. Marluxia seemed so fragile, as if the slightest sharp edge of a word could tear him apart.

"You look so much better," Marluxia murmured, his voice heavy and soft with affection and sadness. "There's so much I'd do to your stupid body if I wasn't so tired." And the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement.

Vexen stretched until his joints clicked. He felt curiously unselfconscious about his nudity. Was this what it had felt like for Marluxia? To be itching for more, every cell in his body alive, but his partner too frail to manage anything more than the most Christian of obscenities?

"I'm sure there'll be ample opportunity."

For a moment Marluxia looked about to protest, but he caught himself, just letting out a defeated sigh instead.

"God, I'm a wreck."

"I know the feeling."

Vexen watched from the pillows as Marluxia stood, dressed in a pair of slacks and a sleeveless shirt - which he still somehow managed to look fashionable in - then went to the mirror to fix his hair. His body, from his posture to the bulk of muscle under his skin, seemed to have sagged. He was at once older and younger than his years.

Finally Vexen said, "You haven't been eating, have you?"

Marluxia glanced over his shoulder.

"I need to talk to you."

They threw away the coffee Marluxia had made earlier; it was cold and over-brewed. Vexen ushered Marluxia onto a stool as he put on the kettle for a fresh pot.

"Talk."

Marluxia played with his hair. It was disconcerting seeing him so nervous.

"You know I've always been overweight," he began finally, falteringly. "And you know I was on a swim team at school." Vexen hummed in acknowledgement. "It was my mother's idea. The coach was a friend of her's, and she thought it might help with weight loss."

"I can't imagine where the bulimia came from," Vexen intoned. "Milk?"

"There's powder in the cupboard. I was on the team for four years. I won a few awards."

"I think I remember you mentioning that."

It was strange to move around Marluxia's kitchen again, fetching mugs and spoons, putting away clean plates while the coffee was brewing. Almost nostalgic.

"And while I was..." Marluxia pulled at his hair, pinched the bridge of his nose. His lashes covered his eyes. His voice took on a tremor. "In my second year on the team the coach molested me. And- and he said nobody would believe me if I told them, because why would anyone want to do that to a fat kid?"

Vexen put down the percolator.

"No."

"That's not even what this is about," Marluxia blurted out, rushing the words. "I mean. I always knew it. That it affected me." And then, voice a hoarse whisper, "A few weeks ago I told my mother. But she didn't believe me."

"After everything that's happened?" Vexen asked, aghast. He longed to hold Marluxia, to comfort him, but his feet wouldn't move. There could have been a glass panel between them, he felt so distant and helpless.

"She thinks I seduced him. She... she kept asking what I'd done. If I'd led him on." Marluxia wiped tears away from his face. "She thinks I seduced him, Vexen! I was _fourteen_! She defended him. After everything I've been through... She thinks I must have wanted it. If I'm gay. She thought I regretted it!" Suddenly Marluxia was angry, his voice rising. "I have nothing to regret! I did _nothing_!" He slumped forwards again, defeated, his head in his hands. "She couldn't bring herself to understand."

Vexen thought about his parents' polite, middle-class bemusement about his sexuality. He thought about the awkward way they avoided talking about his anorexia. He thought about his concerned coworkers and how they treated him like glass. He thought about his relationship with Marluxia and how, for all their flaws - and there were many - they always _understood_.

Finally he was able to move. He closed the distance between them, holding Marluxia tight, stroking his hair.

"That's why I came back to therapy," Marluxia said, his voice muffled against Vexen's chest. He wrapped his arms around Vexen's waist, all pretences lost. Just two broken, broken people. "I needed you. You're the only one who knows what it's like to feel so worthless."

And God said, _take care of him_.

God said, _I made him for you_.

After a little while Marluxia stopped crying. Vexen helped him to make a simple supper of rice and vegetables, which they ate in front of the television. They talked a little: about the sickness, about before, about politics and science. They took turns in the shower. Vexen borrowed a pair of Marluxia's pyjamas. When he wasn't looking Vexen pressed his nose into the crook of his elbow and breathed in deeply. He loved the way Marluxia smelled, clean and floral like freshly cut grass in early summer when daisies cover lawns like snow, with deep, masculine undertones that even expensive aftershaves and laundry detergent couldn't disguise.

They settled early under the covers, too exhausted to stay up late. Vexen thought he'd never fall asleep with his heart thrumming so restlessly, Marluxia's presence beside him drowning out all other thoughts, but he slept better than he had for months.

 

...

 

 

The air was sharp and clean, the sky heavy with the omen of snow. Marluxia's breath billowed in beautiful smoky coils, a slight breeze tugging each lungful of air away. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his leather coat; his neck was wrapped up warm in a loose-knit pastel scarf. Winter suited him. The wind tousling his hair, the rosy flush in his cheeks, his heavy coats and loud protests at the coldness of Vexen's hands.

For a moment, Vexen watched him unnoticed in the crowded street. He was rocking on his toes, presumably in an attempt to keep warm. Then he happened to glance over, a faint smile settling on his lips as he picked Vexen out. Vexen hurried over to share in an affectionate embrace.

"Is that a new hat?"

"No. My ears were just cold."

"Well, it looks awful on you."

"As ever, I appreciate your honesty."

They went inside the restaurant just as the first snowflakes were beginning to fall. Under his coat Marluxia was wearing a surprisingly attractive forest-green cardigan.

"It's been a while," Vexen said as they sat down. The waiter brought them menus and Marluxia asked for a bottle of the house red.

"I've been so busy with work. Did I tell you the company's been acquisitioned?"

"M-hm."

"Well, the worst of the structural changes are complete now, so things should be settling down soon."

Marluxia and Vexen still weren't living together. They didn't trust themselves. Besides, Vexen's mother was still visiting him every few weeks and one awkward meeting between her and Marluxia had been more than enough for a lifetime. She was coming around to the idea that Vexen would have a male partner; a partner who had previously hospitalised him, less so. The reciprocity of the damage did little to alleviate her concerns.

"How much leave do you have saved up?"

"Oh, a few weeks. Why, do you want to go somewhere?"

Vexen shrugged. "Perhaps. Or maybe just a few lazy days at home."

"I can't tell you how appealing that sounds," said Marluxia. The wine arrived. Marluxia sampled it. "Adequate," was his assessment. "Are you still going to therapy?"

"Occasionally," Vexen said. "There's another man now. Straight. He hasn't opened up much, even to me. I don't think he thinks we have anything in common."

Marluxia had stopped showing up a couple of months after he told everyone about the sexual abuse. Perhaps he had got bored of the endless tales of battles and struggles from the other anorexics and bulimics. Perhaps the catharsis of saying that four-letter word out loud had finally enabled him to move on. Perhaps he had a reason to look after his body now.

"It must be difficult for him."

"You can tell he doesn't want to be there."

"You'd know about that, wouldn't you?"

"Hah!"

Vexen ordered a salad, which was his usual choice when they ate out. It was a big achievement to be able to sit in a restaurant, surrounded by people munching and chewing and slurping and swallowing, and face a plate of fancy food without becoming overwhelmed by the pressure, the publicity of it all, the expectations and his inferiority and his fears. Having Marluxia there helped, especially since he wasn't above helping Vexen finish his meal.

They talked about work, the weather and meditation. Vexen had been trying mindfulness exercises, but his cynicism made it a struggle.

"You know," Marluxia said during a comfortable pause, "Tomorrow it'll be six months since I last purged."

"That's almost impressive," Vexen replied appraisingly. Marluxia rolled his eyes.

"It's not the longest I've been in remission, but I'm optimistic that I won't meet a gorgeous anorexic who drags me back down into the deep end again."

Vexen snickered. They looked at each other for a moment.

"I really am sorry," Marluxia said eventually. Even after all this time they were still apologising to each other. Trying to make up for what they had done.

"I know. I'm sorry too."

Vexen looked at his half-eaten salad. He looked at Marluxia's delicate, perfectly manicured hands. The softness that the returning fat gave to his jawline.

He said, "I think I believe in God."

"Really?" Marluxia's eyebrows twitched in surprise. They'd never talked theology much, but Vexen knew Marluxia didn't care for religion. It wasn't difficult to understand why.

"I don't know," said Vexen, "I'm finding it hard to accept that this is all there is. My mother's been taking me to church, and... I don't know, I just don't feel so alone any more." He pushed leaves around his plate. "I feel like there's something out there, something more. Something that brought us together again."

"It's called unresolved sexual tension."

"I'm being serious."

"I'm sorry." Marluxia took a deep breath. Then he added, "If that works for you, that's fine. Just don't become one of those Bible-wielding evangelists, alright?"

Vexen sniggered. "Don't make me laugh. I'm not convinced by all of this Jesus business anyway. I just thought you should know."

"It _would_ be nice to think someone up there cares," Marluxia mused.

"Well," said Vexen, "You know that someone down here does."

Marluxia smiled, glanced away. For a moment the darkness in his eyes didn't seem quite so deep. Vexen understood his shyness at the gesture of affection. They had hidden it so well, but it was all either of them had ever wanted: to be loved.

The conversation moved on. Vexen ate a little more, then gave the rest to Marluxia. They drank coffee from pretty china cups. Marluxia ate the biscuits on the side.

"Glutton."

"No, economical."

They grinned at each other. Marluxia paid in cash with a reasonably generous tip. Outside the air was a flurry of snow, the wind whipping and spiralling it into beautiful patterns in the air. Marluxia shrugged his hood up. His fluffy hair framed his face quite sweetly.

"Shall I accompany you home?" Vexen asked chivalrously; "You're wearing so much I imagine you'll need help undressing."

"That is the _worst_ pick up line I have ever heard," Marluxia groaned as they fell into step together.

"It worked, didn't it?"

"You are terrible."

But Marluxia was grinning as he linked his arm in Vexen's, pulling him a little closer. The snow caught in their hair and melted on their lips. Perhaps there was hope for them yet.


End file.
